


There's a Way...

by Iwantthatcoat



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Abuse, Domestic Violence, M/M, Past Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-11
Updated: 2017-08-31
Packaged: 2018-11-12 18:42:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11167791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iwantthatcoat/pseuds/Iwantthatcoat
Summary: An exploration of Sherlock and John's relationship after The Lying Detective. This addresses John's actions in the morgue scene, Sherlock's hospitalisation, and where they go from there.He's not going to like this. Not one bit. And I told him so. But. He needs to get this out. He needs to stop avoiding this, and avoiding me, and...well... avoiding. Mary is right.Wasright? It needs to all go to hell first. Maybe after it all descends, as low as it possibly can... when it is razed to the ground...maybe then we can rebuild.





	1. Chapter 1

He's not going to like this. 

Not one bit. And I told him so. But. He needs to get this out. He needs to stop avoiding this, and avoiding me, and...well... avoiding. Mary is right. _Was_ right? It needs to all go to hell first. Maybe after it all descends, as low as it possibly can... when it is razed to the ground...maybe then we can rebuild.

***

I've never done this. 

Never hit rock bottom before, in any form. Mycroft always bailed me out. I don't think I'd sink as low as most. I have skills that are far superior to my morals. But the point is, I've never had to watch something be utterly destroyed to see if it is capable of being rebuilt. Not a relationship. Not my own self.

***

I saw this.

I saw this so very long ago. Possibly as far back as Angelo's, when I instinctively brushed it aside. Premonition? Or a simple, logical progression of facts? Or perhaps it is neither. Perhaps I had, long ago, determined this is precisely where I wanted it to end up, and followed my own invisible road map. The paths we choose in avoidance so often bring us to our final destination: Samara.

***

I can do this.

I could always send my mind elsewhere, should I feel in any way unsafe. And he couldn't hurt me any more than he already has. The rest of it continues to be just simple repetition-- pushing it all through his system until everything works its way out. All the anger, grief, pain. Push it all through. I can handle it. But this. This is somehow different. Even though I know it shouldn't be.

During one of Mummy's inspired attempts at socialization for Mycroft and myself, she sent us both..... No ... All. She sent us _all_ to summer camp for a week. We did (amongst other pointless things) trust falls. The trust aspect lies not so much in trusting the person behind you to catch you as you lean backward; it is, rather, a trust in the fragile social contract. A measure of the determination of your partner to not be seen letting you fall to the ground, to not face the scorn of the rest of the group. 

But there is no group here. There is John. Myself. A doorway. My bed behind us. The choice is mine to let him in or not. 

In theory, I have a series of other choices as well. To slow down or stop entirely at any point along the way. But I know that in truth, do not. If I have concerns...fears... I won't voice them. And John is hardly one to need group supervision to police his own behavior. John has always done that internally...been even overly concerned about what people might think. Until the moment when he suddenly isn't thinking at all anymore. That won't happen here. Shouldn't.

No, I wouldn't be hurt here. If anything, I would be very carefully tended to. This would be yet another unspoken apology. A spoken one will never come. I know it's there; I don't need to hear the words-- and John isn't particularly good with them, anyway. He prefers to show me he is sorry in other ways. Ways like this, I assume.

He will lay me down and he will kiss my scars. The one on my chest first, then the one on my lip (those he can still blame, in part, on someone else), and finally the one on my brow. He will make me feel as good as he possibly can. He will sanctify us both. Surely, this is worth more than mere words? Surely I can let him?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Regarding the title. This is meant to sound simultaneously optimistic and pessimistic. It is taken from the Cat Stevens song "Father and Son". "There's a Way" may sound quite hopeful at first, but the lyric continues with "There's a way...and I know...that I have to go away. I know...I have to go." How does this resolve? Whatever direction the muse pushes me in, but be prepared for pain and ambiguity.
> 
> This fic is deeply personal...and I kinda am requesting y'all's feedback in order to keep going. :)
> 
> This will likely diverge from canon regarding Eurus/Faith, which I feel caused the story to shift away from the threat of violence in Sherlock and John's relationship-- which I feel needs addressing-- and sidetracked it into Sherlock's past (instead of their future.)


	2. Chapter 2

"I hear you really did a number on yourself, Sherlock."

The phrasing gives me pause, but, yes. After all, it was a drug binge that brought me here. To be honest, I did anticipate most of this. It was my plan and it had a purpose--a dual one, at that. Mary had kindly shown me the way, and it had worked. And, of course, above all, there is the simple fact that I _wanted_ to be here. Wanted to hear Smith's words with my own ears. Yes, Lestrade is right. I did do a number on myself. There is something in how he looks at me now, though. He is trying to see more. I wonder if he will-- though I sincerely doubt it, despite what he thinks passes for a careful appraisal.

"John said he hit you awfully hard. In his statement. He wasn't kidding."

Internal damage, regardless of severity, is largely invisible, but the damage to my face is far more obvious. I wonder just what it was that John had told him; I can only hope it wasn't too much. John should have said he punched me in self defense (I was high, after all), pushed me away from Smith, and I fell onto something-- a trolley, a cabinet. I hope he had the good sense to lie. No one would have been the wiser. No one will bother to check the catalogue of my injuries for verification. 

Well, there is Mycroft. I certainly don't want his "help", and the very last thing John needs is some melodramatic confrontation, saddling himself with even more guilt. John doesn't do well with guilt. He turns on himself, resents that, and then directs that anger outward again. If Mycroft so much as implies... my brother will only make things worse. My initial instinct is to wait for an insinuation in progress, laugh it off, and praise John for having done exactly what I had asked of him -- helping me ensure my hospitalisation despite his initial hesitation. Add how Mycroft is a fool not to have seen that much, and should know John well enough to never have thought otherwise, and it should drop. He'd be furious at my putting my body at risk for a case yet again (as with Magnussen); that anger should blind him to the rest. But I can not afford to be instinctual where Mycroft is concerned. That requires a bit more strategy...and when I can manage to turn my pain medication down, I will have to devote some time to it. 

I could even tell him John avoided my nose and teeth. (Proof that John loves me?). I chuckle a bit, and then stop, because, frankly, laughter is literally painful. Can't do that, of course-- that's going too far-- but the thought amuses me. Dark humour has always been somewhat of a refuge, and right now I could use one.

Lestrade must have said something else to me, he is looking a bit puzzled. "Sorry. Did you just ask me something? I didn't catch it. Tired."

"I'll let you go then. Get some rest."

I want to ask him to bring me some files. Cold cases. Any sort of distraction. What I really want is my laptop, but I can't draw attention to the fact that John isn't bringing it to me. John hasn't been in again since he visited with the intention of leaving his cane here and quietly tiptoeing out of my life. 

I lied. He is that predictable. I always expected John would leave. I counted on it--even anticipated the parting gift he would bring for me. I did get one point wrong, though. I thought it would be due to his version of tough love, to remain in effect until I was clean, not out of guilt for his own actions. I shouldn't be surprised by those actions though. I anticipated a certain degree of violence. John needed to let all his emotions out. If I can somehow help him in that endeavor, I owe him my continuing assistance-- regardless of the personal cost. So, yes, I lied about his predictability, but I didn't lie about my being a cock. I am a cock for so many reasons, but right now the biggest one is that I can't help but think he made the grand gesture of depositing the cane at my bedside in hopes I would tell him he shouldn't go. Which is absolutely true. He shouldn't. These are not normal circumstances, therefore his was not a typical reaction. It doesn't speak to his character. But I didn't tell him that. I should have. I will.

As I have said, I anticipated some form of this response. Did my best to provoke it, even. John has been on edge for so long now. I was able to inveigle my way back into his life after my return from the dead by using whatever mischievous charm I could muster, and, true to form, I had his forgiveness-- provided the whole incident could then be swept under the rug. Later, he resented my not having forewarned him of Mary's past...and of being the catalyst for that unwelcome disclosure. He is right; I should have known.

The pile under the rug is enormous now, and I had been expecting... some form of this... ever since Mary's death. Since my failure to protect her. But he had been giving me far worse than the brunt of his anger. He had turned his back on me completely. I had anticipated many possible responses to my having failed him, but I never did expect to be shut out. In retrospect, his choice shouldn't have surprised me. After all, it is what he did concerning his sister. Cut all ties. As if she no longer existed. She, in turn, had done the same, being equally stubborn, I suppose...and whatever small issue had sparked the initial argument was now irrelevant, transforming itself into a lifetime of separation, punctuated by sporadic bouts of half-hearted reconciliation.

It was looking to be permanent for me, I think-- though no one could ever claim the causes petty-- and although he would have done just fine without me, I couldn't bear it. Like his years in Afghanistan, his time with me would have been yet another closed chapter of his life, as he moved back to his old role of doctor and forward to his new one as single father. I needed him back, and was-- am-- willing to provoke him in any way I can to escape that indifference. Anything that happens is therefore on me.

How did I get to here, someone once so resigned to being alone? I have no answer for this. I only know I am no longer complete without my John. Stupid, yes. Even when I think of the prospect of being permanently estranged from him right now, I feel physically ill. 

Wait, no. I _am_ physically ill. I've poisoned my body to get here. 

My left shoulder is sore today. I have told myself it is just the angle of the bed, and will see if it subsides by morning before mentioning it to the nursing staff. A spleen injury often presents with pain radiating to the left shoulder. I know there are no major intestinal injuries....they would have made themselves known by now. 

I've exaggerated the extent of my kidney issues to John in hopes that he would find it hyperbolic, and therefore would not truly worry. He knows there is blood in my urine, but the drug usage would certainly account for that. I have tried to let John continue to believe the worst of my injuries are due to this, although privately, I am far from certain that is the case. I do not think he is fully aware of what his maneuvers were-- short of the more generic act of disarming and subduing me in an ingrained, autonomic response. Kidney damage can easily stem from an overdose. Sweating, rapid heart rate, clammy skin, confusion... all things I was... fortunate enough... to have exhibited signs of before we had ever stepped into that morgue. They are also signs of a blunt force injury hematoma. 

John has not insisted upon seeing my medical records yet. I told him Mycroft has provided me with a detoxification specialist, and he has deferred to their expertise. His continuing distance is helpful.

Billy came to see me earlier today, and has agreed to sign me out as my supervisor when I am to be released. He assures me he will look presentable when the time comes. Billy continues to be a more apt pupil than I had anticipated. To the very brink, but not over the edge, was my instruction to him and he had performed admirably. In addition to monitoring me before, so I didn't up and die before I could fulfill my purpose, he was also quite concerned about my current state. He, rather bluntly, told me two facts: firstly, that he had monitored my dosage and, regardless of my opinion on the subject, he was convinced I had not sustained this degree of damage under his care; and secondly, that when he first met John, during a search for Isaac Whitney, he had been wielding a knife which he had threatened John with-- and that he had suffered no more than a sprained wrist. He said it meant I was special.

I am. Special. Special is never actually a good word.

I don't always understand it... but I know if it was not for my unexpected return, John would have been happily living an uneventful life with Mary. And when Mary saw it all unravelling before her eyes, her last chance at a new life, at happiness...well, I ruined that too. They both craved a normalcy they were robbed of early on, that they never thought they could have. At first, I thought John was angry I didn't take him with me, but then I realised he had already let me go. I wasn't supposed to have come back. And therein lies yet another way I am...special. I make John think of paths he did not take, choices he never made. No one likes that. John looks at me and he sees all the things he won't let himself be, and tells himself he never wanted in the first place.

So, I allowed him the chance let it all out. All of it. Because who else can take it? It is me, or it is Rosie, or it is himself. Of the three, there is no doubt which of us is best equipped to handle John's wrath.

I am tired, but the gears in my mind turn endlessly, and any degree of physical comfort remains unattainable.They are carefully monitoring my medication. Tramadol is a poor substitute for morphine, but opioids are not my friends. Or rather, we are very, very good friends indeed, and must be kept apart at all costs. We get into far too much trouble together when our desks are aligned. One might think the magazines on my bedside table would be insipid enough to sedate me, but they are only serving to anger me instead. Maybe I'll attempt to complete the Times crossword whilst only reading the clues numbered in multiples of six, as I root for exhaustion to prove itself victorious over all else.


	3. Chapter 3

John will be here next week. 

He has told me he intends to stay with me three nights a week now, if I will have him. As if I would ever consider turning him away. I know it is hardly to chat; it is to ensure I stay clean. I would tell him that isn't necessary, but I'm not entirely sure that's true. I have been passed from person to person like a bloody baton-- no one wants to see me relapse when they could have been there to prevent it. 

Mycroft came my first night back. He reiterated what he had said on the aeroplane (regarding always being there for me) and displayed horrendous, barely-concealed body language which can only be attributed to his guilt in not having kept closer watch on his charge. The remaining portion of the conversation remained unaddressed. I had prepared myself as best I could, but he did not give me anything to refute, and bringing up the topic myself would have been counterproductive, 

We played some games, going through three rounds of Connect Four-- each ending up in a tie, the playing board filled to the brim with yellow and red disks, even though we knew long ago there could be no winner. He offered something more challenging, which meant chess, but I told him I disliked his strategy. Many, many years ago, we played a ruthless game. I won, due to what he claimed was a premature and unnecessary queen swap, which he was entirely unprepared for. He said it threw him off balance and called it a stupid and inelegant victory. I suppose I thought the purpose of any game was to win. I don't exactly remember. But I do remember I vowed to never play chess with him again. Apparently, that was a vow I could keep. 

He resorted to Operation again, a cheap ploy to see how steady my hands were. I am still more dextrous than he, even given my incomplete recovery. It was during my removal of a wrenched ankle that he suggested I speak candidly with Mrs Hudson. He is under the illusion that she will provide some degree of understanding, due to some issues she had with her former husband many years ago. The situation is nowhere near comparable. Frank Hudson had a problem with violence, as does John-- I won't deny that-- but he was not what anyone would call a good man. And Mrs Hudson was an innocent who never wronged him. John... John is a very good man. John has saved me time and time again. 

I said I'd consider it.

Mrs Hudson is here tonight, as a matter of fact. She generally watches her stories and occasionally "falls asleep" on the sofa. It's her way of staying with me longer. Once, she asked me to deduce who the father was of some fictional character or another. I said it was far easier to tell her about the sex lives of the actors than to attempt to figure out some meaningless drivel of a plot. She frowned, and I apologised and let her know what was the most probable storyline. I shouldn't be so ungrateful to those who would try to help me. She has even binned her soothers in some sort of vague attempt at solidarity. It should feel good. That she wants to help. Sometimes it does. Feel good, that is...not help.

It upsets me that there is so much she does not know, but in some ways that is also a comfort. Her temperament is far closer to John's. They both value a clean, stable environment. Predictability. Things I have never been able to provide. Maybe I should tell her the whole of it. Being naturally sympathetic to John's point of view, she might provide me with greater insight on what John is feeling. How to fix it. I consider this possibility some more and then dismiss it. I am well aware of what habits I need to change. I must simply do so. As much as I know my faults, I am in no mood to be lectured on them. 

***

"The whole world has come crashing down around you. Everything's hopeless. Irretrievable. I know that's what you must feel, but I can only help you if you completely open yourself up to me."

"That's not really my style." Not at all. I am still not sure why I am here. Why I am doing this. Except...

"I need to know what to do."

"Do?"

"About John."

"Well. Are you sure you want to focus on John right now?"

"You said it yourself," I can't help but smile at the irony. "The rest is irretrievable. Focusing on myself is a rather hopeless endeavor. My memories are corrupted. There is a virus in the data."

"So you are focusing on a more practical aspect."

"That sounds more like me, doesn't it?"

"From what I know of you, yes." She smiles. "You know there isn't much I can tell you about John."

"Because of client-patient privilege?" 

"No, because I am in your head, Sherlock. And when it comes down to it, I only know what you know. Alcoholic family, violent tendencies. Nothing like becoming a parent to bring forth every issue you faced as a child. Patterns. The cycles have a power of their own. And that violence. Channeled, rather than overcome. That coping mechanism is gone now. That coping mechanism-- is now you." 

Ella closes her notebook and looks around her space. "Have you chosen this setting, more a church than an office, because you wish to confess something? Are you here to receive absolution?" The space now resembles a confessional. I can no longer see Ella, but I know she is there behind the screen.

"Accountability more than absolution. Though I did begin this whole process. I took a man with," I glance at her notebook, " _trust issues_ , and I lied to him for years. But I had his forgiveness."

"You mean you forced his forgiveness. That isn't the same thing." I will never have his forgiveness. "They say time heals all wounds."

"Does it? All of them?"

"The better question isn't does it, but _should it_? But if you really want answers about John, you should talk to _him_."

"He wont talk to _me_."

"Then talk to his other therapist. She would be more forthcoming."

***

She looks at me- notices I am not holding a violin case. She stands and watches me some more.

"Not about us, Eurus. About John. I need to know about John."

She moves closer. Up to where the glass is. Then gets up and walks to the far corner of the room. As she walks back, she has a different bearing. Heads purposefully to the bed, sits on the edge, and crosses her legs. I should remember this therapist better. I did meet her once, after all. Of course anything I would have gleaned from that office would have been useless information, as that was the original therapist's work space. John never met her, the closest he came would have been a phone call to her receptionist to set up an appointment. I am meeting this persona for the first time, it seems.

"Tell me about your morning. Start from the beginning." Her accent is German.

"I woke up."

"That's what he said. Your John."

"He isn't my John."

"Isn't he?"

"Not anymore." It floats through my mind, in passing, that the few friends that I have are safer from Eurus when she thinks we aren't friends at all-- that is, if she did kill Victor out of jealously. I wish I had been exaggerating about our estrangement for John's own protection. I begin to wonder if this whole meeting isn't ill-advised when she begins to speak again.

"Ah. I think, he still is."

There is an underlying softness to her voice. I might have been wrong. Perhaps the accent is Austrian. I don't think the original therapist was likely to have had an accent, and if she did, John wouldn't have known in any case, but perhaps she had a name of Germanic origin and Eurus decided--

"You are wondering about my name, my accent." The accent drops abruptly. "I had to use the name of the actual therapist, her first name was Greta. John wouldn't call her by it though, avoided it, I think it provided more detachment that way. I liked that it sounded foreign. She wasn't, but accents in certain fields tend to lend credibility, makes people think of Freud, not that he was right about much. So I couldn't choose a name of my own creation, if I could have, it would have been Totenwasser, do you like it?" Her face beams with pride for a moment, and then falls again. 

"But I was stuck with Müller, and I really should switch back to her now, I don't feel like I will be cooperative as myself, and I do _want_ to be. Faith liked you, and I want to like you, and of course they are all still me, just seeing me from a different angle, in different lighting, but I..." Her voice was gaining speed, volume, intensity. "I also want you gone gone gone. I shouldn't want you gone because you wouldn't stay, emotions, _complicated things_ , a puzzle but not a good one. Let's try this." She pauses abruptly. "You be John. I'll be Greta." 

She closes her eyes. When she opens them, she is Greta. "How did you sleep?"

Recurring dreams, when I sleep at all. Which isn't often, but I am accustomed to that. I am going to a crime scene, but I choose Mary over John. John is hurt. i have made John feel inadequate. Useless. I tell him Mary is far more skilled. Mary makes a joke about the dog being comparable to John. I know exactly how that part ties into my subconscious. Dull. The dog is looking for a killer, searching for their scent on some objects tainted with blood found at the crime scene. But the dog does nothing. Goes nowhere. It's as if the dog has already picked up on the scent and has no need for additional tracking. The killer is me, John, or Mary. If it is me, I don't remember. It could be Mary. Mary was an assassin, after all. So am I, I remind myself. Or perhaps it is John. If it is John, I will help him establish an alibi. If he is guilty or not is irrelevant. 

But I am not me, I am John now. And Eurus is Gretta. And I suspect John would answer in much the same way I am answering now. "Not well."

"Yes. Alone still, yes?" Alone. She had been trying to figure out if John was in a relationship. Odd. John still wears his wedding ring. Unless she is trying to determine if I am..."I meant your daughter-- she is still staying with friends?" Fast backtracking. Plural...interesting. There is no happy couple Rosie is staying with. Is she being passed from person to person, much like I am, with no one suspecting that John is actually avoiding spending time with her?

"Yes. I still need some time to clear my head."

"You are worried about her. About letting her down. Because you think her losing a mother is more important than you losing a wife. She doesn't know this yet. The loss. But you do."

"She can sense it."

"Of course. But she is still a child. When you lost your mother, did you think you needed to shield others from feeling that loss?"

This is new information. John was a teenager when his mother died. Possibly younger. But how he felt about it? How he processed it? I have no idea what to say. "I don't know."

"Protect your sister now that your mother could not? Until she ran off and left you to watch as your father's moods grew steadily worse? Did you want to run off, too?"

That would have been when John left for university. Or did he leave for the army first? He must have done his medical training and joined up later. I... don't know. There is so much about John I don't know. His middle name, so insignificant, but I was determined to suss it out. This _matters_. And I don't even know enough about John's early life to ascertain if Eurus is correct. Though she likely is.

John wouldn't answer this question. John would be belligerent. "You tell me. That's why you have all those letters after your name and get paid so much an hour."

Eurus smiles. And yes, it is Eurus, not Greta, though when she speaks her voice remains accented. "I will tell you, then. What I think, yes? You chose a female therapist. Some believe gender irrelevant, but it is often considered most effective to utilise a clinician of the same gender as the person with whom you have your greatest issues. We call it transference. So, I can help you forgive your mother for dying. Forgive your sister for saving herself and forgetting all about you. But forgiving your father, most important, will be the most difficult-- if you are even ready to do this. Forgiveness can be complicated, and it is not necessary for recovery. But without some type of resolution, we manage to find people to reenact these same issues with, over and over, until they are finally resolved. So. What I think. I think you are doing this quite efficiently. The over and over part."

I have to accept that Eurus can read things far beyond my own capabilities. It is humbling, but it is also reality. Her vision of John's childhood is still theoretical...I can't imagine John having told her much detail during their sessions about abuse at the hands of his father, the death of his mother, his sister's inability to handle the expectations placed upon her and subsequent escape into altered-consciousness before her literal escape of the house itself and John's choice to retaliate by having as little to do with her as possible. 

I was his mother. I was his sister. So was Mary. In his mind, John was always his father, and he was destined to watch Rosie become him. We were all everyone but ourselves. 

It made me that much more determined to stay beside John, to help him work through this tangle in his head, to be with him at the end of it all. I can not abandon him again.

"Are you still having hallucinations, John?"

"No. I haven't seen Mary since Sherlock and I had our last case together."

"The one where he ended up hospitalised? Being with Sherlock again, has helped these bursts of anger? Provided a suitable diversion?"

I grit my teeth. I can't tell her. But it doesn't matter-- she already knows. Or maybe it does matter, since she is waiting for me to speak. But I can't let her know just how very badly I have failed John. There is so much he needed from me which I was not aware of. So much I should have made it a point to have found out. 

"Is there anything you aren't telling me?" Still Greta. Still talking to John.

"No."

"Perhaps you hold yourself," the accent drops mid-sentence, "to an unreasonable standard." I turn away but she is still speaking. I don't look back. "Sherlock, it might be a good idea to find someone else to confide in besides your sister who occasionally wants to kill you, but then again perhaps that is a pattern worth exploring. I'm sure Mycroft would tell you that you are this way because of me, and maybe you are, maybe you only love people who want to hurt you, or maybe you think the people who want to hurt you are the only ones who see you as you truly are, so you trust them even though you shouldn't. Maybe you should stop this and save yourself, or you will die trying to fix us, maybe maybe maybe, I don't know both are so interesting, as if you _could_ fix us. There's that arrogance, you can fix _everything,_ fix all the broken people, solve all the cases no one else can is it still arrogant if it's _true_?" 

I walk toward the door, my back to her cell. "Did I keep drawing you dead because I hated you or because I loved you and thought if you were dead you'd be better off?" She pauses for dramatic effect. "Do you like me more now, Sherlock? Now that you have a pretty reason for why I do what I do...just like now you have a pretty reason for why John did what he did? Does it make it all better?" She stops, laughs, and as I turn back to face her, tilts her head methodically-- her smile showing barred teeth. "All the better to hurt you with, my dear."

I push the button to exit.

"Next week, Brother? Violins? No talking?" she calls out to me.

I turn to face her again before leaving. "Yes. Violins. No more talking."

"Oh. Good. And no more today either. But one thing, one important thing." She looks at my face carefully, then at my ribs, my stomach, then back to my face again. "I didn't make him do it. I didn't make him do anything, I just wanted to get to know all of you and see what happens next, like watching telly." She looks quite grave now. "I don't like talking. I don't always know which things to say and which to not." She returns to her bed and faces the wall.

 _Everything. Say everything. I have already tried saying nothing. It did me no favours._ I wonder if she can hear that, somehow. But we are done talking for today. Perhaps we are done talking for quite some time. I walk through the door and listen for the click behind me.


	4. Chapter 4

I force down another slice of toast. Eating first thing in the morning feels wrong, even if it isn't that early in the morning now, and my stomach lurches as John sits down across from me. 

It hasn't been a week just yet, and I wasn't ready, but I couldn't refuse the visit either. John said he had been passing by. On his way back from a consult. That was true, as far as I can tell these things. He was visiting another professional he respected very much, judging by his careful attention to dress, and hadn't been sleeping well the night before due to anxiety about his patient. He said he had wanted to visit as soon as he exited the Underground, across the street from his former home, but he had an appointment. And it was too early (he knew I was a late riser). And since the return trip would take him past my door again, he made the decision to stop by then. To check on me. 

"I'll be honest, I did think an unexpected visit might be a good thing. Not that I think anything is truly unexpected where you are concerned." 

"That's not true. There are many things that can happen that I do not anticipate." I immediately want to say that I didn't mean _that_. The thing I'm not supposed to bring up. But I might have meant just that. So I say nothing.

"Sherlock, I... I've never done it before and I will never do it again. It was just...with Mary dying, I just had all this...anger...rage. At...you. At her. At Rosie. Everyone and everything. I need to let things go. I need to stop it. I just don't know... what else to feel."

"I don't want you to stop being angry."

"Sherlock. Please don't... don't lie to me. I know I need to change."

"Anger isn't the enemy. I need you to be able to be angry at me. To yell at me. To be furious at me, even-- when I do something that makes you furious. I know that I probably will. Do something that makes you furious. And when it comes to your capacity for violence you should agree that you need violence. I'm not saying it is what makes you, you...but it was a big part of what made us able to do the work we did. I just... never expected you to use that capacity for violence against _me_."

I want to say how it used to make me feel safe. To know that John would have my back. Would protect me at all costs. But the truth is I don't want to say 'used to' out loud, and I don't feel that way, safe, any more. I think it would be a disservice to mention it when he is trying to restore that faith. It was a mistake in our past. I shouldn't let it taint our future. 

I do want to resolve this, so it is over and done with, to see what we have left, so I summon my courage and continue. "I, have been thinking about what happened... at the aquarium. Thinking a great deal about it." I feel pinned by the table. I need to be able to move more readily. I stand up and scrape the chair back in place. "Some choices I had made might not have been the best ones." John's body jolts in a quickly stifled laugh. "But I had thought them through. And they seemed like they were...the best ones... at the time. I need you to believe that I did the best I could."

"Lestrade said you challenged her. The secretary. He said you tore into someone who was pointing a weapon square at you. Why...why would you take that risk...why would you..."

I have an answer for this, but it is nothing that he would accept. So I say nothing. When the silence becomes too much, I feel the need to say something. Anything. I let words spill out, unheeded.

"It all felt like it was in slow motion, John. Like I could see that bullet coming straight for me. Watched it moving closer. I waited for it to hit me. And the next thing I knew, I wasn't bleeding-- and Mary was."

"And then she died."

It seems such an unnecessary thing to say, but he is feeling the finality of the moment.

"I miss her too. And I never meant for... "

"I know."

"And I'm not saying you shouldn't be hurt, angry, feel whatever it is you feel. My intentions are irrelevant in this situation. What I did...it ended her life."

"I thought of it as... well, I think she thought of it as a debt she owed you. And that was why I was...I was..furious at her that she had done what she had done, when she shot you, _to have owed you a life_. That was on her." He stops and clears his throat. "And I wasn't there either. Both times, I wasn't there." He looks as if he is going to stand as well, but I can see him making the choice to remain seated. "She told me later that you had offered to help. And that was when she shot you. And I was, still blaming you for... being shot by her. As if that was somehow something you did. Let yourself get shot by her."

"It was the same thing, John. The same as Vivian Norbury. I didn't think she'd really do it. You would think I would have learned my lesson the first time. But-- and this is important--" I thought it had been obvious. And after I realised that it wasn't, I told myself that it didn't matter. Perhaps neither one of those things is true. "She wasn't doing the assassinations herself-- only arranging assassins to do her dirty work for her. And even that was via telephone. She wasn't a... she _shouldn't_ have been a killer. I thought I could intimidate her. I miscalculated. I... got it wrong."

"Sherlock, I let that vile excuse-for-a-human flick me in the face and I didn't lose my cool. But when you were...I even kept going, once you were already down and I.... And it's because I can't lose you. I can't." His eyes show a desperation he is unable to conceal. "Don't die on me, Sherlock. Don't poison yourself. Don't be so lost to the drugs that I lose you, too. Don't leave me, and it will all be fine. Just...don't leave me again, and I will do whatever it takes to fix it. I promise."

I would give him a second chance, a third, a fourth, a fifth...an infinite number of chances. This is what frightens me the most. I think he would do the same with me, should I start using again. If we could both just, stop...

"I can't say I've never done it before, John. But I won't do it again."

"I need to, get back to..."

"Yes, of course."

"Starting Monday, late afternoon, okay?"

"Yes. Monday, late afternoon."


	5. Chapter 5

John puts Rosie down for a nap twenty minutes earlier than usual, placing her in the small bassinet and carefully removing any stuffed animals first. This is meant to be a longer conversation, then. We've done the sobriety talks to death. This narrows the list of potential topics considerably.

"Sherlock--" He stops. "I don't know how to begin."

"Begin at the beginning. Stop. Make some tea. Continue to the middle. Check on Rosie. Then push through to the end." How he reacts to my attempt at levity will help me prepare for what is to come. If he is truly angry at me, he will grimace. If he isn't.... 

He smiles. A hint of buried laughter. So it is to be affectionate criticism, then.

"I love you, Sherlock."

"Yes, I know. I love you too, John."

"No. No, I mean...I-- I _love you_...Sherlock."

I must be taking an inordinate amount of time to fully process this new information. Well, I say new. I had thought it before, and dismissed it as improbable. Just me seeing what I most wanted to see. The counterpart to what I did with Mary-- not seeing what I _didn't_ want to see. I ruled it out long ago for lack of objectivity. And now, now, now I really--

"Sherlock. I know it's a lot to process, but... but I really need to hear you say something. Anything, really. At all. Right now."

"I'm sorry, John... I..." His face falls. "No, I mean I'm sorry I was lost in thought for a moment. I... never expected to hear this from you."

"I think...I think that's why I've been so...."

It is hard to let him sort this out right now. It feels like I shouldn't be here for it. Like this should have been John's conversation with himself after waking up from a strangely erotic dream, or while gazing deeply into an empty shotglass. But he wants me to understand. I do. I always did. But that doesn't mean I ever expected him to act any differently than he has up until this moment. 

"I can't keep pushing all this down and not expect it to keep... to come out in ways beyond my control... no, it isn't beyond my control... it's just..."

He wants me to jump in and rescue him from this processing. Seeing my reluctance to put an abrupt end to the conversation, he stops, breathes... it is all too clear this is a method he has been taught. To attempt to regain control when faced with frustration. But I can still see his fingers whiten as he grips the edge of the kitchen chair. I try not to stare at his hand.

The half-finished sentences hang in the air as I parse it all together. 

"You are so calm and collected, Sherlock. How can you _be_ like that?" 

I want to tell him that we all have parts of ourselves we dislike, and most of the time these are things we can not change. They are parts of who we are. However we got there, however we end up--brave or meek, silent or loquacious-- it is what it is. And if we can't accept ourselves exactly that way, if we continually fight to become something we are not, that is when we have our greatest issues. 

But John is trying to change. He is counting to ten, breathing deeply, his heart rate is slowing, and his fingers will eventually return to their normal colour and perhaps he will ask me if I'd like some tea, or if I have read the morning paper yet, and the moment will pass. He thinks I'm calm. He thinks I'm calm when I find myself wanting a client to interrupt us with a case, wanting a cigarette, wanting...wanting whatever _third_ thing to nicely complete this list that would stop this discussion right now because...I don't know if I still _want_ John Watson. 

I did once. I trusted him and he trusted me, and I admit that I was the first to break that trust. But now, it is I who can not summon up enough trust in John. 

"John. I think perhaps, seeing as we have been through things no friends should ever..."

"More than that Sherlock. We are more than just friends and you are well aware of that fact. And that is what I needed to finally see for it all make sense. Why I can't handle the thought of losing you. Because I did before and I felt as if this piece of myself was ripped away, and seeing you like that when I... I just felt like I was losing you to something new. That you were losing whatever made you Sherlock Holmes. And what made us a team. I was so afraid I would lose you again."

Just like when I was dead. That is still at the very heart of this. All I went through when I was away, things I don't want to think about ever again (what's done is done), must forever seem insignificant to John compared to what he had felt having watched me jump. Left to think about how I had abandoned him. How I had saved him once, but he wasn't good enough to have saved me.

He loved me then, too. I didn't know it yet. Maybe he didn't either. Maybe he suspected.

"I would have found a way for you to go with me, John. I didn't know."

"I forgive you, Sherlock. You didn't know the chain reaction it would cause. You weren't thinking   
about me. And I forgive you."

But I was. I was only thinking of John. And saying it no longer seems possible. John is telling me (not due to some trick, not because he thinks he is about to die) that he has forgiven me. He is waiting. Now is when I am supposed to say I forgive him too.

"Thank you, John."


	6. Chapter 6

"Would you like a case?"

"From you? No."

"This is not my typical fare. It does not concern government work. Mr Melas is a member of The Diogenes."

"Sounds an _awful_ lot like government work to me." The Diogenes is teeming with bureaucrats. I want to wear a medical mask whenever I am anywhere near the place.

"Mr Melas is a linguist." Like Mary, my mind _helpfully_ supplies. And probably up to covert operations of some sort as well. Mycroft looks distinctly uncomfortable. "He does translation work for us. In any case, it concerns his fellow Cypriot, Paul Kratides. Mr Kratides has been missing for three days. Melas came to me for help."

"Why not go to the police?"

"He is confident Kratides would prefer not to have the police involved."

"So he is here illegally."

"That is my understanding, yes. I am told Kratides had come to England in search of his sister, Sophie. He located her, Melas believes, and they had an appointment she did not keep. Kratides seems to have mentioned something regarding her coming to stay with him for a while, picking her up from the train station, that sort of thing." Mycroft waved a hand in the air. "I can only assume she never showed up and he went looking for her. I need you to find them both."

 

***

 

"Why did you give me this case?"

"I don't understand. You weren't receiving cases from that Detective Inspector of yours, and I thought you might be bored out of your skull without one, so..." 

With the extreme amount of lying Mycroft does, one would think he would be much better at it. "Why did you give me this case, Mycroft?"

"You are clearly still on edge. Perhaps you should--"

"There are no coincidences. If you value continuing a relationship with me in any form, I suggest you come clean on the matter. Why did you give me this case?"

"There are most certainly coincidences... Sherlock. It was a coincidence that Mr Melas mentioned the situation in the first place, certainly. It became quite clear to me that Sophie Kratides's brother was suspicious of the man she had met back in Cyprus and tracked the two of them to the outskirts of London. That she had agreed her situation was a dangerous one and she would accompany Paul Kratides on his return trip. Also, that she had gone running back to the man who _landed her in hospital_ simply because he showed some signs of remorse. Less certain, but probable, was the likelihood that once discovering her brother had intervened, the fiancé whom she apparently still loved and trusted due to his supposed 'reformation' kept him as a secret prisoner until the sister became aware of the situation. Tell me, did he try to kill them both? It seems the inevitable conclusion."

"You know the answer to that."

"Oh yes. There are most definitely such things as coincidences. That such a case should cross my path is quite a large one, but, once having done so, that it should cross _yours_ does not meet the qualification. Of course, _my_ suspicions were far less grounded in observable fact than Mr Melas's."

"I don't know what point you were attempting to make, Brother Mine, but I have news for you. John is nothing like Harold Latimer. Latimer tried to kill us all, trapping us in a house custom-made for that very purpose. A modern day Murder Castle. It had a collapsable ceiling and a sealed room for poisonous gas and was located far enough from the main roads to make it a long trek to any aid. I managed to fit through a gap I created by kicking down a few of the weaker boards, just before I was to be crushed from above. With a bit of assistance from Sophie herself in navigating the darkened cellar, we made our escape. Latimer was well on the way to eliminating Paul, and would have succeeded, had I not known precisely where to find him-- by tracing a pipe leading off the gas stove. And you dare to compare John to this monster? John has made mistakes, yes, but John is no monster."

Not another second here. I leave him still smirking, still in mid-pour of the Glenlivet to celebrate a job well done. My only regret upon my departure is that the door has been retrofitted with a modified hinge, so as to close slowly. I'm denied the satisfaction of hearing it slam.

Ridiculous. It's not as if John would ever try to harm me if I simply left. Point of fact, we aren't even living together at the moment. He just comes by to help me maintain sobriety. The case does have a few dark parallels, though, and I amuse myself on the cab ride home with passing thoughts of how fitting it would be if John were to kill Mycroft for his interference in much the same way Latimer had attempted to kill Paul Kratides. But, in truth, nothing about this experience has been even remotely amusing-- except, perhaps, the fact that I had found myself with a private room in an HH Holmes hotel which, fortunately, had used far cheaper construction materials than the original.

Mycroft had missed few details in his stint as armchair detective. It had been simple. With Melas around to provide both background information about Kratides and the location of his home, I was able to quickly determine where Sophie lived. Then from there, on to Sophie's fiancé's. 

Paul had given his sister a way out, and Sophie had changed her mind. When she didn't arrive at the station, he had gone after her to see for himself whether or not she was being held against her will and quite possibly to try and convince her, once more, to leave. She hadn't been, but Latimer could scarcely afford for her to see him again if he wanted to ensure her compliance, and threatened him. Doubtless she heard his voice at some point, and from that moment on they were both prisoners. She may not have been capable of it before, but the moment she saw Paul pulled out of that room, barely clinging to life, I somehow doubted Latimer would be long for this world. Her face was set in fierce determination for a moment, and then softened as she moved back to Latimer's side. 

What she does next is no business of mine. I am not retained by the police to supplement their deficiencies. If I had someone I loved, who had nearly met such an end, how might I act in pursuit of my revenge? I have never hated my brother more than I do at this moment. And, I suppose, he has never loved me more.


	7. Chapter 7

I have decided not to speak with Mrs Hudson. Not _with_ her; I will, of course, continue to speak _to_ her. I am working quite diligently to ensure I am not creating the appearance of avoidance. The fact is, far too many people have found what they must consider to be subtle ways of providing me with their unsolicited opinions. I can not stomach the prospect of yet another. 

She is not me. That much is obvious, I am no longer physically weak, and I will never be that helpless again. I can quickly put an end to anything which might make me uncomfortable. This is my own obligation. And, should the need arise-- which it should not-- I am fully capable of protecting myself, of defending myself, of... simply walking away. It is irksome, to have to form these postulates in my own mind against invisible accusers, because I know John is not a threat to me. I have researched it. 

As recently as two days ago, in case my previous information on the subject had been outdated, I read psychological comparative studies of abusers. There are specific types of traits exhibited by those who pose a risk to their partners (or potential partners). John does not fit the profile. I have resolved this dilemma without anyone's advice, and I feel no uncertainty in my decision.

I sit at the breakfast table and wait for John to come downstairs. I anticipate it will be the last time he shall do so, and I silently mark the occasion. In future, my bedroom is the more practical choice. John's leg is no longer the issue it once was, but my double bed is far larger than John's single.

He finally makes his way to the kitchen, with slow steps. He has much on his mind. As soon as I am in view he speaks.

"I know this is all new to you. Relationships. And it can be scary, and that fear is natural. But you have to jump in. Commit to it-- to each other-- and see it through." John frowns. "I know that must sound rich, coming from me. I know I've had my share of girlfriends come and go. But this time... it matters. This time is different... because it is right."

I hesitate. 

When people see me on a case, they believe my strength lies in my senses. My powers of observation and, thereafter, of deduction. And this is true. What they do not see, however, is that I always know where to look. And the reason I always know where to look has far less to do with observation and more to do with intuition. If I was the criminal, what would I do? Of course, I need to adjust my range of options in accordance with the intelligence of the suspect. But I do not check the entire area within a crime scene; I leave that to NSY. I only check the places where I expect to _find_ something-- and I usually do. In short, I know what I am looking for.

I wasn't even aware I was looking for anything, but I see something in John. Or hear it, rather. He is saying precisely what I would expect to hear. I don't know the speech patterns as they relate to this situation-- to me-- but I sense them, nonetheless. 

When something isn't quite right, as much as it pains me to say it, I don't _think_ it isn't right, I _feel_ it isn't right. The next step is to determine why. I look to past cases (there is nothing new under the sun, after all) and then, if I have found no precedent, I seek out specific details. Gather information to formulate a working hypothesis, careful to bend neither theory to fact nor fact to theory. 

But here, I have precedents. I know how these stories start, and how they end. I know the odds.

And yet, I am here. I am listening to John tell me where my concerns are rooted, as if relationships themselves are frightening things. They aren't. They are new, yes, but they aren't frightening in and of themselves...or at least they shouldn't be. That tired old "fear of commitment" is a ridiculous concept for two men who have shared their lives, their...deaths... their disappointments, traumas, fears. 

The prospect of a sexual relationship is new as well. For one of us, anyway. But, again, it is such a minor step, comparatively speaking. I have already shared all the rest. 

Yet, still, I feel this trepidation where there should be none. I reconsider the facts yet again, reviewing the list within my mind. Then I cross them out en mass. I should at least try this. A relationship. I would regret dismissing the opportunity, which will never come again in my lifetime. 

I find myself saying words, phrases, aloud. That it is right. That I will be ready. 

It should have been the right thing to say, but breakfast remains strangely silent. John is watching me closely. And I him. 

I check my mobile to see if I have been distracted enough to have potentially missed a text from Lestrade. 

I can not bear to simply wait for tonight. Or should it be right now? No, these things are best done in the evening. That way, it will be expected that we fall asleep together. I think I will let him fall asleep first. 

There are no messages, and I consider texting to ask for a case-- something to occupy my mind, for now. I chew on the toast and toy with the mobile's buttons. John looks over at me. 

"Text? Didn't hear it."

"From earlier, when I was showering," I lie, "just responding now." Then I do text Lestrade, asking for a one. 

Even a cold case will do. He gives me a brief summary of what they've got. I take the cold seven over the hot four. The seven is still fairly recent. It might take a day or two to follow up on the barely discernible leads, but I will worry about tomorrow tomorrow; I need something for right now. I don't mention anything to John concerning when the crime actually occurred, and we are off to pick up files and examine the scene. If he asks, I will say it is connected to a current case.

It is early evening by the time I am able to find the precise location of the original crime scene. I knew there would be two in fairly close proximity. The alley and the bin at the side of the victim's flat have long since been emptied, swept up, washed away with a season's worth of interminable rain, but I am far more concerned about the condition of the paint on the fire escape. Over a year-and-a-half later, and there is still a visible scraping, a show of bare metal which should have been protected by a coat of black. It's still shiny at the right angles, not nearly enough time has elapsed for it to have rusted over and blended in with the paint. 

The seven just might be an six now, but it's still running up the clock. We head back to the flat itself. The current residents are out. They will be unaware that they are living in a space once occupied by a dead woman. The interior will have been thoroughly cleaned and fumigated using a special service, then stripped, carpeted and painted anew. Perhaps it is charity on my part when I decide a view of the inside is hardly necessary, as the layout is rather repetitive and I can gauge the location of each room by the exterior. Ignorance is bliss is not generally a theory I ascribe to, but it applies to the flat's new occupants quite well in this instance.

After so much time, most neighbors will have moved on, but not the vital ones. The ones who stay put year after year are statistically the most likely to spy on their neighbors, staking their spot and watching the parade of people moving in and out. The elderly lady across the way watched the suspect's flat, of course, but I don't bother to ask her for anything she personally recalled about her neighbor; NSY already has. 

She allows me to look at the rooms from her vantage point-- the kitchen, and a spare bedroom have a clear view. She would likely speak more freely about what she knows after all this time, but she would also remember very little of it. I have a far greater interest in the observations of her grandson, who visits during the summer months. The spare bedroom faces the victim's own bedroom window, the grandmother has had issues disciplining the boy and turns off the internet connection before sending him to bed early as punishment, and the dust patterns along the windowsill have betrayed him. I doubt the boy had a prurient interest in looking into his neighbor's bedroom, more likely to be proximity and boredom than sexually-motivated voyeurism. It doesn't matter to me in either case, but he will be more open about what he has seen if he feels I believe his intentions innocent.

John noticed me run my gloved hand along the sill and he smiles. Says, "Rear Window." It takes me a few seconds to process that, no, he was not simply stating the obvious, but referring to a film. One of the ones we saw at the Hitchcock festival I agreed to attend with him last fall. 

"Perhaps you should go measure the height of the zinnias?" I say with a smile.

John is surprised. "Oh. You kept it. I... assumed after you watched it you would have just... fictional mysteries have importance as well, then?"

"They can serve as a template for less than creative minds." 

The truth is I am cursed with an exceptional memory, whether I wish it or no, and I don't like to delete things. 

Not since rediscovering Eurus. 

My mind is a far more cluttered place now, in that respect. My thoughts more scattered, at times.

I have considered deleting the events concerning John and myself many times. To truly start fresh in a way even he can not conceive of. _The events concerning John and myself_. It seems I have already gathered them together and provided an obfuscating label. I was not entirely aware I had done this, and I force myself to bring up concrete images of my body doubled over, blood dripping from my nose and mouth to the floor, simply to ensure they weren't already gone. I am looking at the scene, replaying it as if observing from a spot alongside the morgue's back wall. I try to recall it from the proper vantage point. To not see my own face, only my forearms bracing the floor where the blood is dripping down, gathering into a pool. 

I can't. 

I know John expects this of me, staring into the middle distance at crime scenes, but even I must observe reasonable time constraints when in what presents to others as a pseudo-catatonic state. Perhaps I shall try again later.

If I were to expunge the scene, and John were to somehow find out I had done so, it would only serve to underscore its importance. I have tried to determine if he would ever be likely to bring it up again: to make a maudlin reference, a comparison, or to give some sort of apology. If I had no recollection whatsoever of the events he was referring to, what I would say to him? I don't know, and what I might fill it in with during my attempt to puzzle things out could end up being far worse than what had actually occurred. But I still considered... no, _am considering,_ doing this.

I can not interview the boy until tomorrow afternoon. 

We head home.

****

I can do this.

I could always send my mind elsewhere, should I feel in any way unsafe. And he couldn't hurt me any more than he already has. The rest of it continues to be just simple repetition-- pushing it all through his system until everything works its way out. All the anger, grief, pain. Push it all through. I can handle it. But this. This is somehow different. Even though I know it shouldn't be.

**Author's Note:**

> Regarding the title. This is meant to sound simultaneously optimistic and pessimistic. It is taken from the Cat Stevens song "Father and Son". "There's a Way" may sound quite hopeful at first, but the lyric continues with "There's a way...and I know...that I have to go away. I know...I have to go." How does this resolve? Whatever direction the muse pushes me in, but be prepared for pain and ambiguity.
> 
> This fic is deeply personal...and I kinda am requesting y'all's feedback in order to keep going. :)
> 
> This will likely diverge from canon regarding Eurus/Faith, which I feel caused the story to shift away from the threat of violence in Sherlock and John's relationship-- which I feel needs addressing-- and sidetracked it into Sherlock's past (instead of their future.)


End file.
